Hotel California
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: When Charlie hosts a weary traveler at her grandfather's bar, she wonders: Just who is this blue-eyed stranger? Set after the first movie.


_Disclaimer: Mad Max and all related characters are property of MGM. I'm just borrowing them._

Hotel California

by The Lady Razorsharp

_...Livin' it up at the Hotel California  
Such a lovely place  
Such a lovely face..._  
--The Eagles

It wasn't that big of a place, even before the Wars. There's a picture of it nailed above the bar, with my grandfather standing outside, waving to the camera when the place was new. _Hotel California,_ reads a glimmer of neon scrawled against the tiled portico.

The only claim to fame the bar ever had was the jukebox--the only juke in a 70 kilometer radius. Nowadays it's the only thing in the place that looks just as new and shining and hopeful as it did 40 years ago, back in the 20th. Oh, people always warn me up one side and down the other that the skags are going to trash the place and chop the juke up for spare parts, but I always tell them the skags will have to get through me to get to it.

Since we don't get many visitors in this part of the country anymore, it was hard not to miss the stranger as he walked through the door. It was hot that day, and the air was moist and miserable. Thunder rumbled, and the few fitful gusts of wind that stirred the yellowed lace curtains smelled of rain. I had just finished polishing the juke, and I scurried back behind the bar as the stranger pulled up a worn barstool and sat down.

"What can I get you?" I asked.

The stranger's pale blue eyes took in every detail around him, cataloguing every image with robotic precision. "Seltzer."

I turned over a glass and sprayed it half full from an old-fashioned mixer bottle. "Ice?"

"How much?"

"Half a liter for two cubes."

Shaking his head, he reached for the glass and slid a fuel exchange coupon across the bar. "At least it's wet."

I couldn't help a wry smile. "Cold costs fuel."

"Everything costs fuel." He tipped the glass back, draining it with a polite slurp.

"Don't I know it?"

I went about what I was doing for a few moments, and the stranger sat staring at nothing for a while. My curiosity got the better of me, so I slipped a few looks at him while he wasn't watching. Nothing out of the ordinary: Early forties, hawk-like features, short dark hair. He wasn't bad looking, really; he reminded me of someone—an old movie star, maybe? The name skittered away from me, unimportant.

His face might not have been remarkable, but his eyes, those blue eyes that didn't miss a thing—they were distinctive. At second look, I noticed that he couldn't be more than thirty; it was weariness and the burden of some great sorrow that seemed to age him. His right thumb rubbed across a bright gold ring on his left fourth finger as he stared off into space.

I stepped into his field of vision. "Anything else for ya?"

His head snapped up as if I'd woken him from a deep sleep. "Could use a place to crash."

"Sure. Old place out back, if you wanna check it out."

He rose and collected his black leather gloves from the bar. "Much obliged."

He went out the front door and climbed into a compact, low-slung car. The harsh sunlight glinted from the chrome blower sprouting through the car's battered hood. I retrieved my keys from a nail by the storeroom door and pushed open the screen just as the stranger pulled his car around to the tiny bungalow behind the bar. He perused the scene through squinted eyes, taking in the burnt grass, the cracks in the plaster walls, the dirty windows.

"Not much to look at, is it?" I said, leading him onto the small porch.

He touched the rocker on one of the rusty tin chairs with the toe of his boot. The metal sounded a pathetic squeal of neglect. "It's not bad," he said thoughtfully, following me inside once I had unlocked the door.

I laughed, but not from amusement. "Wonder where you came from, to make you say that this mouse hole isn't that bad."

His soles made dull thumps on the worn boards as he moved through the rooms, his progress not even stirring the stifling air. "You don't want to know."

Shrugging, I let it lie. Everyone these days had a past, myself included, so I didn't pursue it. "Don't bother trying the sink; the pipes are busted. I'll get you some water from the well. Privy's behind the house." He nodded understanding and sat down on the bed, which sang with a symphony of worn springs. I winced for his sake, and continued. "The regulars show up for breakfast around here about daybreak. It's not fancy but it's edible."

He was looking around the room, still cataloguing everything in that robot-like way of his. Then his gaze came to rest on me as he finally gave me his full attention. "Where did you learn to cook?" he asked.

I laughed again. "So you were listening."

"Sure I was."

"All right, my grandfather taught me." I folded my arms across my chest, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back and plastering my thin white shirt to my skin. In contrast, the stranger, who was clad in slim-fitting black leather breeches and black leather jacket, looked as cool as August rain. While I explained how my grandfather had raised me out here in the bush, the stranger removed his jacket, revealing a tight, sky blue t-shirt that had seen better days. My eyes widened as I saw the faint outline of a bloodstain covering most of the right sleeve. Maybe he was right; I didn't want to know.

I took a half-step backwards toward the door and gave him a little wave. "Well, I need to get back to work. See you tomorrow." I turned to leave, knowing he'd be long gone by morning.

"Hey."

I hesitated just inside the door, glancing back at him over my shoulder. "What?"

"What's your name?"

I leaned against the doorframe, a small smile quirking one side of my mouth. "What, are you a Bronze or something?"

Something deep in his eyes flinched, but his face betrayed none of it. "Just wanted to thank the hostess."

Grinning, I acquiesced. "Charlie."

He smiled, giving me a glimpse of what he must have looked like in happier times. "Charlotte?"

"Charlie," I said flatly, "After my grandfather." I scanned his lanky form, which was now stretched out on the protesting bed. "And you, Mister...?"

He closed his eyes, hands behind his head. "Max."

"See you later, Mr. Max."

He cracked open one eye. "Just 'Max,'" he corrected. He closed his eyes again wearily. "Thanks, Charlie."

"Mmm." I turned and left, closing the screen behind me.

It was late when I finally kicked the stragglers out onto the board sidewalk, and as I went back inside, I shook my head, knowing that the band of drunks would probably pass out where they came to rest. My grandfather had always said that bars would always stay in business, especially in times of hardship, and so far his words had been true.

I locked the door, covered the jukebox with a protective canvas for the night, and then went out back and shut off the generator. On my way back into the bar, I caught sight of Max; he was sitting on the bungalow's front porch with his back against one of the overhang pillars. He was stripped to the waist, and beads of sweat glistened on his lean chest and shoulders. By the light of the old Coleman lantern at his side, I watched in fascination as he cleaned his heavy, high-caliber pistol.

He looked up at the crackle of the dry grass under my bare feet. "Hi, Charlie." Max finished wiping the gun with a worn cloth, then fitted the clip back into the gun and smacked it closed with his palm. "What brings you out here?" he asked, ignoring my curious glance.

"Nothing, just closing up for the night." I closed the door on the shed that housed the generator. "How's it going?" I fished.

Max looked up into the night sky. Black and silver clouds roiled overhead, racing toward the horizon. "It's gonna rain soon, you know," he said.

Nodding, I headed for the back door. "Well, goodnight, Max."

"Goodnight, Charlie."

After slipping into my faded cotton nightshift, I blew out the candle and went to the window to look across the yard at the bungalow. Max was still sitting on the porch with one leg propped against the opposite pillar, his gun within easy reach. I saw a tiny point of light in the darkness, followed by a wisp of smoke. He waved, and I knew he'd seen me standing in the window. I returned the wave, wondering where on Earth he had managed to get cigarettes.

"You'd better hide those around here," I said, leaning my elbows on the sill.

Max chuckled and ground the smoke out on the plastered pillar. "If you'll keep my secret, you can have one."

"No thanks, I don't smoke." I looked up at the sky again. The clouds were low and pregnant with rain that still hadn't fallen. "Where's that rain you predicted, Mr. Weatherman Max?"

He lit another cigarette, and the smoke wreathed his head like a dirty halo. "It's coming. Listen."

I cocked my head to the side. Sure enough, a flurry of raindrops drummed musically against the porch roof. "Where'd you learn to predict the weather?" I asked cheekily.

"My father taught me."

Smirking, I turned from the window and lay down on my bed, leaving the sash open as the cool, sweet air filled the stifling room. A few moments later, I heard the screen door squeak as it was pulled open, and the sharp noise it made as it slapped against the doorframe. I closed my eyes and was instantly asleep.

Morning dawned sweltering, with black clouds gathering in the distance. I had just finished dishing fried potatoes into Skinny Joe's plate when the door opened, revealing Max in a clean sky blue shirt and dusty black leathers. The entire assemblage at the makeshift table looked from Max to me, and I nodded at the newcomer. "Good morning."

"G'morning," Max responded politely, before finding himself an empty seat at the end of the table. He helped himself to potatoes and toast, not seeming to mind the fact that I had scorched the bread. I finished scrambling the few eggs I had managed to glean from my balky hens, and I gave the pale yellow curds a few shakes of pepper before scraping them into a chipped crock. Max had already devoured half of his potatoes when I set the eggs on the table, and I sat down in the only empty seat—which happened to be at his left hand.

All was silent except for the clinking of the battered flatware against the dishes until Max looked up and asked, "Please pass the eggs."

The raggedy group at the table exchanged glances until Dan Silver, a former truck driver who had been stranded here when the skags hijacked his tanker, slowly reached for the crock and passed it down. "Coming around."

Max nodded to Dan. "Thanks." When the crock passed to me, Max took it from my hands and spooned out a modest share of the spoils. He handed it back, and I passed it down again as he picked up his fork.

"Where you from, stranger?" Dan asked, emboldened by the sudden departure from the normally sullen meal.

Max chewed and swallowed. "South of here."

Skinny Joe nodded. "What brings you Northward?"

"Skags."

There was a chorus of nods from around the table; skags had run roughshod over the entire country, maybe even the world—or what was left of it, anyway.

"I hear even the Bronzes can't stop the skags now," muttered Pete, a shopkeeper whose store had been raided and burned by skags six months before. "I hear for every Bronze that joins up, the skags kill another."

Max scooped up the last of his eggs with a wisp of blackened toast, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief, and pushed his plate away. He nodded a silent thanks to me, and then turned the iciness of his gaze to Pete. "What makes you say that?"

In surprise, Pete's fork stopped on the way to his mouth. He looked at Max as if he were an unruly child who had spoken out of turn. "Because I seen it." He glanced around the table, roping the others in with a bit of morning drama. "I saw a whole pack of 'em gang up on a Bronze once. They flipped his car and shot it all up, and then one of them lit a cigareet and threw it at the car. The Bronze was just a-screamin' his head off." He shook his head. "Poor fellow."

Shoving his chair away from the table, Max stood abruptly. His hands clenched into fists, and for a moment I was sure he was about to clean Pete's clock right there. "Yes," he whispered, almost to himself. "Poor fellow." He strode to the door with quick, hard steps, letting it slam behind him. In a few moments, I heard the rumble of the car's blown engine and a squeal of tires as he fishtailed onto the asphalt in front of the bar.

Standing to collect the plates, I shook my head. "Well, I hope you're all satisfied. We won't see him again, that's for sure."

Skinny Joe piped up, "Well, at least he won't be bothering you none, Miz Charlie." He looked at the sullen group. "We was worried bout you last night. We didn't want him comin' in and takin' advantage of you."

I chuckled. "Sure, that's why you all drank yourself silly and passed out on my front stoop last night." I stacked the plates and carried them behind the bar. "Okay, breakfast's over. You all get on to work, now."

The group muttered thanks to me for the scanty meal, and then went to their assorted tasks. I let them hang around on the property in exchange for what they could earn at the settlement down the road, or by keeping up the vegetable patch. Some of them repaired the building with what materials I could beg, borrow or steal.

Still, as I dried the last of the dishes and went to throw out the dirty water, I wondered why Pete had mentioned the unlucky Bronze, and moreover, why Max had reacted the way he did. I looked at the bungalow and found myself drawn across the grass toward the squat, crumbling building.

Setting the dishpan on the porch, I opened the screen and moved through the house into the bedroom. Everything was just as it had been before, with the exception of a shiny piece of paper on the nightstand next to the rickety bed. I picked it up and saw that it was a Polaroid of a lovely young woman and a blond toddler, both smiling and waving to the camera. I wondered who they were, and if they were important to Max, why he would have left the picture behind?

The roar of motorcycle engines brought me out of my reverie, and I ran to the window just in time to see a scruffy procession of bikers slow along the road in front of the bar.

_Skags! Oh, no, the jukebox!_

I stuffed the picture into my pocket and took off at a full run, forgetting the dishpan on the porch in my haste.

I yanked open the back door of the bar just in time to hear someone yell, "Can't anyone get some decent service around here anymore?"

I recognized the tall, greasy-haired loudmouth who had bellied up to the bar with several of his ragtag cronies. "What do you want, Jack?" I snarled at the mangy biker. "I told you I didn't want you here." I went to the CB radio on the desk in the back room. "I'll call the Bronzes on you and you'll be in a world of hurt then."

His scruffy bearded face split in a grin, showing his mouthful of broken yellow teeth. "That's why we're here, missy. We know there was a Bronze holed up here last night. Where'd he go?"

I scowled. "What are you talking about? There wasn't any Bronze here last night." Thumbing the button, I spoke into the microphone. "This is K30X94, calling Patrol. Come in, Patrol."

The tiny speaker ground out a scratchy response. "This is Patrol, K30---"

The voice suddenly went dead, along with all the lights in the building. I dropped the microphone and ran—only to collide with Jack's leather-clad chest. He smelled of sweat and road grime, and I nearly gagged. His blackened fingers grabbed my ponytail and yanked my head back roughly.

"Now, we can't have that," he purred. "Where's that Bronze? Did you stash him somewhere?" I could almost feel the touch of his gaze as his beady eyes roamed my body.

The queasiness in my midsection grew until I could taste bile. "What Bronze? I told you, I haven't seen one in weeks."

Jack dragged me by the hair out the back door as his compatriots jeered. He jabbed a finger at a series of parallel lines where the rain had turned the dust to mud. "Tire tracks. Not just tire tracks, but Interceptor tracks. Only Bronzes drive those." He grinned. "The last time I saw one of those, it was on fire, Bronze and all."

Beyond the fear, my grandfather's spirit boiled up inside me. "You're such a coward, Jack."

The biker snarled and gave me a rough shake. "What did you say?"

Everything was spinning, but I pressed on. "You couldn't even take him down in a fair fight. You set him on fire, and he didn't have a chance."

Immediately, my midsection exploded with pain as Jack plowed his fist into my stomach. The world went white, then black as I threw up my breakfast all over Jack's boots.

I awoke, aching dreadfully all over, my head pounding at the sound of blows from a blacksmith hammering on an anvil. Then my head cleared and I realized that I was listening to a cacophony of raindrops hitting the roof of the bungalow. I was tied hand and foot, lying on my stomach on Max's bed, my dishrag between my teeth. I tried to spit it out, but it was no use; the damp cloth was tied around my head. From inside the bar I heard noisy laughter and a snatch of music, punctuated by the occasional shattering of glass.

I struggled to flip myself over and managed to sit up, the rusty bed screaming so loud that I expected someone to come rushing across the grass at the noise. When no one came, I swung my legs around and knocked over the bedside table. The hurricane on the lamp shattered as it hit the floor, and I went down on my knees beside the puddle of sparkling shards. Easing myself into a sitting position, I cast about with my bound hands behind my back, trying to find a big enough piece of glass to cut the ropes. After several tries, I found one, though the sharp pain in my middle finger let me know it would cut more than the rope.

When my hands were free, I untied my ankles. Blood was everywhere by the time I was done, but I didn't spare the gash a second look as I scrambled to my feet and hit the screen running. I ran straight into a column of black leather, and my heart nearly leapt out of my chest. Before I could do more than gasp in surprise, a black leather glove clamped over my mouth, and I looked up into Max's eyes.

"Don't scream."

I shook my head, and he released me. "They're looking for you," I spluttered. "They know you were here last night."

Max turned and pulled out his gun. "Stay right here. Don't move." He left the porch and stole silently across the grass, ducking into the open back door.

I did as he asked until the sound of more glass shattering sent electricity down my spine and into my legs, forcing me to move and retrace his steps from the bungalow to the bar. A chorus of rough voices rose in a shout—and was cut off by the roar of twin gunshots and a bloodcurdling scream.

My heart was in my throat as I crept into the bar and peered around the corner. I expected to find Jack standing over Max's body, a smoking gun in his hand, but to my relief, it was reversed. Jack lay in a growing pool of blood on the floor, his gun still in one lifeless hand. His minions were scattered around the room, their eyes wide with terror.

Max calmly swept the crowd with the muzzle, his eyes blazing with cold aqua fire. "Anyone else?" When no one moved, he gestured curtly with the gun. "Get out."

In less than half a minute, all of the scruffy band was gone. Max holstered his pistol and walked toward me. "They'll be back. You're not safe here."

I shook my head stubbornly. "I can't leave. I made a promise to my grandfather."

Max's expression sharpened. "Did you hear me, Charlie? They'll come back and kill you if you stay here. I'm taking you to the next town."

"_No!_ I made a_ promise_---"

He gripped me by my upper arms, bringing me close to his lean face, and his icy stare held me fast. "There's no promise worth anything, except the promise of life—_your_ life, Charlie."

The jukebox glittered out of the corner of my eye, bittersweet reminder of what used to be and would never be again. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of my grandfather, and Max's expression softened slightly as he saw my distress.

"All right," I sighed. "I'll go."

As the words left my lips, a movement behind Max caught my attention. Impossibly, Jack was struggling to drag himself to a sitting position. His breathing was ragged and drops of blood spilled from the corners of his mouth, but his intent was clear: In dying, he would take his killer with him.

I must have screamed, because it seemed to me that everything went into slow motion as Max whirled and drew his gun. Two shots flashed from his hip and slammed into Jack's chest. The roughneck's body jerked backwards, and his finger tightened reflexively on the trigger of his pistol.

Half a second later, I realized that my left thigh was on fire and no longer able to support my weight. I toppled to the floor, seeing and hearing Max from the end of a swiftly narrowing tunnel.

"Charlie!"

For the second time that day, the world washed out into a white blankness a split-second before everything went black.

"Charlie."

I was awakened to the sound of my name, and was vaguely aware that I was lying on something extremely soft. I opened my eyes and saw Max standing above me, favoring me with one of his rare smiles. "Glad to see you're awake."

I smiled in return, feeling a little sluggish. "Wha' happened?"

"The doctors put you to sleep to get the bullet out of your leg." His smile faded. "I'm sorry I didn't see it coming."

"Even some as sharp as you doesn't have eyes in the back of their head," I reminded him. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

"All in the line of duty." He twisted his gloves in his hands. "Well, I just wanted to stay and make sure you were okay. I've got to be going."

"Wait." I reached into my pocket and brought out the Polaroid. At the sight of the picture, I saw a little of the ice in his eyes start to melt.

When he spoke, his voice was tight. "Where did you find this?"

"On the night table in your room," I replied. "Who is it?"

He looked at the photo for a moment more, smiling a little. "It's my wife and our son."

I leaned up on my elbows, wincing as the movement made my leg twinge uncomfortably. "Where are they?" I asked.

The iciness had returned, and he put the picture in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. "They're dead."

It was getting more difficult to keep him in focus. "I'm sorry."

He backed away. "I've got to go, Charlie. Be seeing you around." He took a few steps toward the door, and then turned back to smile at me. "Thanks for the hospitality."

I sank down into blessed unconsciousness. When I woke up, Max was gone.

-The End-


End file.
